The bell of Salem Village tolled thrice before sunrise — once for the dead, twice for the condemned, and a third time for the guilty yet untried. That morning, the sound hung heavier than frost, echoing through every shuttered window.
In her small cottage, Prudence stirred from uneasy dreams. The candle she had left unlit now burned on its own, the wax spilling like tears. She pinched the flame out with trembling fingers and rose to the sound of hoofbeats.
Outside, three men waited: the constable, a minister, and a farmer whose daughter had taken sick. All wore the same grim resolve as if they had come not to speak, but to judge.
"Prudence Ashcroft," the constable said, "you are called to stand before the magistrates at first bell. There are… claims."
"Claims?" she asked, her voice steady despite the chill that gripped her.
"That you called on spirits. That you consort with the woods. That a child named your name in fever."
Prudence met his eyes. "And what does a fever know of truth?"
No one answered.
---
The meetinghouse was crowded beyond measure. Mothers clutched their children close, men whispered into their collars. Prudence stood alone beneath the high windows, pale light cutting through the dust like judgment.
Magistrate Hawke cleared his throat. "You are accused of practicing witchcraft, Prudence Ashcroft — of making covenant with the Devil, of afflicting children, and of unholy dealings in the forest. How plead you?"
"I plead only to what I am," she said quietly. "A healer. A daughter. No more."
From the benches came murmurs — some pitying, others venomous.
Goody Larkin rose from her seat, her voice sharp as a blade. "I saw her eyes glow in the moonlight! She spoke to the trees as though they answered!"
And from the back, a child's voice quavered: "She touched my hand and the fever left me. But when I woke, I heard her whisper my name."
A shudder passed through the crowd.
---
The magistrate's gavel struck once. "Enough. Prudence Ashcroft, you will remain in custody until such time as your soul may be examined by the Reverend and his council."
They led her away in irons. As she passed the threshold, the wind outside rose sudden and fierce, slamming the church door wide. A gasp rippled through the assembly — the candles flickered and hissed as though alive.
"Do you see?" Goody Larkin cried. "Even the air obeys her!"
The constable tried to close the door, but it would not move. Only when Prudence turned her head — her gray eyes calm, sorrowful — did the storm cease.
---
In the cold dark of her cell that night, Prudence traced her fingers through the straw. Beneath it, she found a single black feather. She did not know how it had come there, yet when she held it, warmth filled her palm.
A voice — softer now, more intimate — drifted through the stones.
> "They have bound your body, child, but not your name. Names are older than fire."
Prudence closed her eyes. "Then teach me how to keep mine."
The whisper came like a sigh of embers:
> "By remembering who you were before they feared you."
And when dawn broke, the guards found her kneeling by the small barred window, humming a song no one recognized — a melody that made the walls themselves seem to breathe.